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a wet monk running
his open umbrella
would much rather walk
a full winter moon
paints the snow as something else
beautiful blue light
stale bits of bread crumbs
so careful not to step in
puddles of pigeons
all the fallen snow
comes to rest on the gravestones
colder grows the moon
snow filling the trees
so quickly and so quickly
a perfect silence
so green and so blue
the same impossible colors
rice fields and the sky
a restless night’s sleep
my first thought in the morning
our bed half empty
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